DEATH Poem: Your Hand in a Soft Garden, by Madelaine Decker

I see me and you
and our trampled home-grass.

We stemmed from here,
damp growing seeds
climbing the fertile sun.

I grew tall and blew away.
Your season was cut short,
your body collapsing in place.

You rest in the dirt,
your sanctuary.

I feel the grass and remember:

You died before winter,

calm
dry
then wet.

A warm fragrant sprout,
your hand in a soft garden.